


I See You

by CawCawMF



Series: I See You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CawCawMF/pseuds/CawCawMF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two and a half years since Sherlock's fall from grace, and it's been only six months since his return. The famous consulting detective has begun to...feel things for a certain pathologist. However, things may not be as safe as they all think. He always misses something....there's always one thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Molly had always seen Sherlock Holmes. Ever since the first day he had walked into her morgue, up until the day he had asked for her help. She had saw every detail. Now, two years after the fall and six months since he had returned to the land of  the 'living,' she found she saw even more.

  
During his stay at her flat, she had picked up on his mannerisms. There were the obvious ones: how he would sulk when he was bored by playing the violin, trying new experiments, or, worst of all, nearly destroying her flat (there was the one time when the curtains caught fire). Then, there were the subtle things: the slight furrowing of his brows when he was annoyed, the way his eyes would light up when he discovered something, and the small, almost non-existent, smirk that would grace his lips when she surprised him. She liked that best of all.

  
However, for all the things Molly Hooper saw about Sherlock Holmes, there were a few recent things she was missing. Of course, she was only missing them because the world's only consulting detective was doing his best to hide them from her. He had learned his lesson before the fall. Though he didn't mind being himself around Molly normally, she did see (or observe, he preferred to think) far more than he initially gave her credit for. However, as of late, he had begun to think of her quite differently, a fact he wanted quite hidden from his pathologist.

  
So, Molly Hooper did not see how Sherlock Holmes' eyes would follow her around the morgue when she wasn't looking. She did not see when he watched her work with a reverent gaze. She did not see how his eyes would light up whenever she would laugh or smile, much as they did when he discovered something. She did not see his soft tone of voice whenever he spoke to her (or, if she did, she chalked it up to him being grateful for her help.) She did not even see that he had been showing up at the morgue more and more often for random experiments that had nothing to do with cases. (Of course, she did not know they had nothing to do with cases.)

  
No, Molly Hooper had not seen Sherlock's new interest in her. It was such a shame, too. Maybe if she had, none of this would have happened.


	2. John's Observations

As previously mentioned, Molly Hooper did not see any evidence of Sherlock's new...affections for her. John Watson, (the consulting detective's flatmate, blogger, and best friend) however, did.

After the initial shock of Sherlock returning to his life, and consequently 221B Baker Street, John started to pick of on the slight differences.

The first sign was subtle. He had taken on more cases. At first, John thought absolutely nothing of this. Sherlock was back in the game.

Next, John noticed that Sherlock had even taken cases that were a four at the most. Again, he chalked this up to two years worth of boredom on Sherlock's boredom.

But then, John perceived a pattern emerging. He only took on cases involving death. Specifically, ones where he was required to visit the morgue. John was slightly suspicious, but still didn't think too much on it. He had lived with Molly Hooper for two years, and Sherlock Holmes was, even if he denied it, a creature of habit. Of course he was accustomed to her presence.

It wasn't until four months after Sherlock's return that John Watson raised an eyebrow. The detective turned down a high paying, high profile jewel robbery case, an eight at the least, in favor for a run of the mill hit and run, not even a two.

After that, John started paying closer attention. Then, he noticed all the things that Molly Hooper was missing. And it made the doctor speechless. Sherlock Holmes was in love. Whether he knew it or not, whether he would ever acknowledge it as that or not, he was head over heels about Molly Hooper, of all people.

John had never seen it coming. Truth be told, he never thought it possible. However, now that he saw it, he couldn't help but think it was...right. The way Sherlock watched her, it was...he couldn't describe it. It was as if she was precious to him. It was protective and caring and, well, almost a little sickening at times.

Then there were days when he could see the attraction Sherlock had to her, when he could see the lust in his eyes as Sherlock quickly dismissed himself from the lab, John trailing behind apologizing to Molly. (He realized that this happened, more often than not, on days when Molly had her hair down from her usual ponytail. John briefly wondered if Sherlock had a fetish for her hair, but then pushed that thought away deciding he did not want to know.)

He kept his mouth shut for two months, watching - no, observing, gathering enough evidence against his friend so that when he confronted him, there would be no way Sherlock could deny his feelings.

It was a Tuesday and they had just returned to 221B, from the morgue of course, when John put his plan into action.

"So, I've been thinking about Molly Hooper lately," John said nonchalantly as he hung up his coat.

There was a brief moment of silence before - "Do be more specific, John. You know how I hate mindless chattering."

But John had seen it in his peripheral vision. As Sherlock had walked over to his chair, he had frozen for a mere millisecond. Now there was an almost imperceptible smirk on his lips as he, no doubt, thought of the young pathologist as he sat down. To John, these signs were more than enough to prove his theory. However, he wanted to prove it to Sherlock as well, and that would take a bit more convincing.

"Well, I've been thinking about asking her out," John replied, leaning casually against the wall facing Sherlock as he crossed his arms across his chest.

The room went deadly silent. Sherlock froze again, but this time it wasn't for a millisecond. John could see that his jaw was clenched and he heard a faint sound that could have been his teeth grinding.

"On a date?"

The doctor could tell that Sherlock was doing his best to keep his voice normal and under control, but it was rather ruined when the question was hissed out between clenched teeth.

"Yes, Sherlock, on a date. Honestly, of all the times you've accused me of asking stupid questions, you sure-"

"You can't!"

John startled as the taller man jumped from his seat and began pacing furiously while he continued.

"You can't date her John, you simply cannot. We all know your track record with women-" John bristled defensively at this. "-and more often than not your relationships end badly. I will not allow you to do that to Molly. We work with her on a nearly daily basis and all of that would be ruined when you muck things up. Besides, she is far too good to become another one of your conquests. She deserves better than that, John. So leave my pathologist alone and find another o - John, why on earth are you laughing at a time like this? I hardly think this is amusi-"

His mouth shut quickly, and John could almost see the cogs turning in his head. He could see Sherlock remembering a very important detail that he had forgotten in his jealousy-fueled rage: the fact that John Watson had been happily dating Mary Morstan for nearly five months now. Contrary to the consulting detective's statement, John found this highly amusing, and he could not control his laughter.

John saw Sherlock's eyes light up in recognition, then anger, then, to his surprise, resignation. He had expected the anger. Suddenly, the consulting detective sighed deeply as he threw himself rather unceremoniously on the couch face first.

A deep rumble came from the cushions of the couch. John, finally calming to the occasional giggle, seated himself on the edge of the table beside his melodramatic friend. Honestly, lord help poor Molly Hooper.

"I'm sorry, what, Sherlock?"

"How long have you known?" he replied, turning his head just so John could see a sliver of his face underneath his dark curls.

"A few months now," John responded without thinking, then nearly choked on air. "Wait, does this mean you admit it?"

"Admit what, John?" Sherlock asked, turning his head a bit more as he tried to appear casual.

"Oh, don't be coy, Sherlock. Do you admit to having feelings for Molly Hooper?" John held his breath.

"Don't be stupid, John. Of course I don't have feelings for Molly Hooper." And John released said held breath. Well, he knew it wasn't going to be easy.

"I'm in love with her," Sherlock added before turning his head back into the cushions.

John actually choked on air this time.

"Really, John. Stop with your incessant coughing. Don't you think you're being a bit over-dramatic?"

After he could breathe again, the doctor stared at his best friend, who had now turned back over to return his gaze with a (too convincing) bored look about him.

"Did you actually just admit to being in love? You, Sherlock Holmes? The man who thinks sentiment is a weakness? The man who doesn't even believe in love, or so I thought?"

"Yes, John. Do keep up," his friend replied, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his phone to send a text message. John quickly snatched the device out of his hands. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, John cut him off.

"Oh no, Sherlock. You are not going to pretend that this is no big deal. You are being far too nonchalant about all of this and you know it. I know feelings make you uncomfortable, but if you actually have them, then be serious about it."

Sherlock sat up sharply and glared at him for all of two minutes, but John held firm, glaring right back into his ice blue eyes. Finally, Sherlock let out a groan.

"Fine," he grumbled as he flung himself back on the couch.

"Look who's being over-dramatic now," John mumbled. Sherlock's head turned roughly, his eyes hard and John put his hands up in defense.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asked, sounding like a petulant child being asked to reveal what he had done wrong.

"How?"

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off again.

"And don't ask me to specify. You know exactly what I mean."

It was silent for a long period of time. The clock ticking close by and the fire crackling behind them made the atmosphere seem even more tense for some reason. The minutes ticked by, and still, Sherlock had not spoken. John was beginning to wonder if the detective had dozed off. He was about to get up to make a cuppa when he heard the deep baritone of his friend's voice.

"It was actually rather annoying at first," he said with difficulty, as if this sentence revealed every deep secret he held.

John, putting on his most supportive face, urged him to continue. "Okay. Um, could you elaborate?"

Sherlock was quiet again, but only for a moment this time. "Well, I started observing things. Of course, I do that anyway, but I started seeing things I had not previously."

When he stopped speaking again, John realized this was going to be like pulling teeth. "Like?"

"Like her shampoo."

The doctor turned his head slightly. "Her shampoo?" he asked with a raised brow. He knew Sherlock had a thing for her hair.

"Yes, her shampoo. It smells of lavender, perfectly ordinary on its own, but when mixed with Molly's own natural scent, it's...fascinating."

John smirked a bit, and was about to urge his friend to keep going when he spoke again.

"Well, I think that's enough for now, don't you?"

"What? Sherlock, no! Tell me more!"

"John, please. Just...let me keep this."

John was highly confused for a moment. But then, it hit him. Sherlock shared his deductions with everyone. Everything he had ever discovered, he had to tell other people. But this one, this deduction was personal because it was about him. It was about Sherlock and Molly, and it was between the two of them.

"Okay."


	3. Molly's Deductions

It had been a very long day for Molly Hooper, and she still had two hours before her shift ended. She sighed heavily as she continued sewing up Arthur Miller's chest cavity. When he had come in with abnormal bruising on his back, arms and wrists, Molly had been quite excited to learn the cause of death.

After checking his wrists, she found traces of a metal (probably from handcuffs or something of the like), and she became further intrigued. (Hey, you didn't live with Sherlock Holmes for a year and a half without picking up a few tricks.) However, upon further investigation, she found his cause of death to be a simple heart attack. She assumed the bruises were from falling after the attack, perhaps.

As she kept sewing, Molly noticed a bit of red close to the cadaver's ear. How had she missed that before? She leaned over to inspect it. _Hm, not blood, not nearly thick enough. Very thin, smeared, shiny, almost...glossy. Wait, is that-_

"Lipstick?" Molly wondered aloud. She quickly adjusted her theory. It seemed that the poor man had a heart attack during very, hem, passionate relations with a - not wife, she was devastated when she came in - must be a mistress, then. Molly felt a bit proud of herself for her deductions, but it passed quickly. Arthur Miller's case was disturbing, yes, but once she figured it out, it was ultimately rather boring and predictable.

_Dear Lord, I sound like Sherlock._

Her train of thought then turned to the detective as she worked. Thankfully she had gotten used to his presence during his stay. She had stopped stammering incessantly whenever he was around, and she even blushed less. She still became nervous every now and again, but she found it much easier to be herself around him.

He had been somewhat kinder since his return. She liked to think that he had grown fond of her, but the rational side of her, the side that had grown a backbone to keep her from getting hurt, told her that he was merely grateful for what she had done.

And she could handle that. She knew where she stood. She counted, just not in the way she wanted. And even if he didn't consider her a friend, she knew she had his respect, and that was more than she could have asked for.

Finally finishing the careful sewing, Molly pulled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin. After she washed her hands, she noticed that her hair had started falling out of the nice plait she had put it in this morning. She removed the band at the bottom and ran her finger through her tresses, intending to quickly redo the braid when the door burst open.

_Perfect. Just who I want to see me when my hair is a crimped mess and I've been on my feet all day. Wait, did I even put on make-up this morning? Oh, bloody hell!_

"Ah, Molly. I came to see the results of those cultures I left the oth-"

He stopped dead in his tracks, causing John to run into his back with a grunt. His eyes went wide as he looked at her. Wow, I didn't know I looked that bad.

She hastily turned her back and went to get the cultures, ignoring the pricking in her eyes. _Come on, where's the Molly with a backbone now?_

She returned shoulders back and head held high. His eyes were examining her, _deducing_ her, but thankfully, he said nothing.

"Good evening, Molly," John greeted with a warm smile.

She responded with a grateful smile of her own. During Sherlock's 'death,' she became good friends with the doctor. He was a genuinely kind man.

"Hello, John. It's good to see you." She turned to see Sherlock still gazing at her, his face a mask of stone.

"Sherlock," she said in way of greeting. He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, the doors burst open again, this time by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Hello Molly, I was hoping you had the results of Arthur Miller's autopsy for me."

He stopped when he noticed Sherlock and John in the room. "Sherlock, how did you - never mind, I don't even want to know how you found out about this one. Really though, I wouldn't think this would be a case that would interest you."

"Actually, I wasn't here for a case. However, since I am already here and you have aroused my curiosity, I suppose I shall take a look. Where is this Arthur Miller?"

Molly sighed and showed the three men over to the slab where she had just a few minutes ago finished with the body.

"Arthur Miller, 45, cause of death: heart attack," Molly rambled off, her tone bored. Was it just her imagination, or did Sherlock smirk slightly?

"Yes," Lestrade began. "We believe that there may have been foul play involved, though. He was an important government official. He was found in a motel, covered in bruises. We think he may have been abducted and given a drug that caused the heart attack."

"Wrong."

Two pairs of eyes met. The word was spoken simultaneously. Though Molly had said it much softer than Sherlock, she spoke with the same confidence. He looked at her with great intrigue, a look she had never seen in his eyes, at least not directed at her.

"What do you mean wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored the Detective Inspector and just continued to stare at Molly, who was now blushing lightly.

"I think I'll let Molly explain this one," he said. She blanched.

"What? No, I mean, I-" she began the stutter, but was cut off.

"You said he was wrong, did you not, Molly?" _Why is he doing this? Is he purposely trying to humiliate me?_

"Well, yes, I did, but-"

"Well then, explain why it is you believe that." And then, the bastard had the nerve to smirk at her. Smugly. That's when something inside her cracked. Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms (the stance of an angry woman that every man should look out for).

"Fine," she snapped. She then went confidently through her autopsy and her own observations that she had made. She finished with her theory as to what had happened to Arthur Miller, and was met with two pairs of surprised eyes and one pair that were indecipherable.

Suddenly, she felt very stupid. Oh no, had she gotten it wrong? Of course she had! She wasn't a detective. She was just a silly pathologist, with silly little ideas and-

"Right on all counts. You might want to find that mistress right away Lestrade. If you'll all excuse me, I must be leaving now."

And with that, he left the morgue immediately. Molly stood there, dumbfounded. She was right. And he didn't care in the least. Of course, this was nothing to him. He did this every day with little to no effort. He had deduced in seconds what had taken her an hour.

"Pay no attention to him, Molly. He hasn't been himself lately. Really, though, that was absolutely brilliant. I'll call you later, yeah?'' John said as he made his way to the door. He really was too sweet, always cleaning up Sherlock's messes.

"Um, yeah. I'll see you later, John."

He gave her an apologetic smile and then rushed out the door after his friend.

"Well, it seems I need to go through Miller's phone record's again. Thanks, Molly. Like John said, that was amazing," Lestrade said with a brief smile.

"And hey, if you want, I can punch Sherlock's face in. I've been wanting to for ages," he added with a boyish grin. At this Molly laughed lightly. Greg was another one that was too sweet for his own good. Why couldn't she have fallen for him or John? Her life would have had a lot less heartache.

"Thanks, Greg, but I wouldn't want you to bruise you knuckles on his jaw. Not really worth it," she joked halfheartedly. He gave her a sympathetic look before he too said his goodbyes and left the morgue.

As Molly finished the rest of her shift, she mused on how to take what had happened. She finally came to one heartbreaking conclusion. Despite what he had said those two years ago, Molly meant nothing to Sherlock Holmes, and, after today's events, she was almost positive she didn't have his respect.

***

John fumed and took the stairs two at a time as he ran after his friend. He knew Sherlock was far ahead of him and had probably already gotten a cab to 221B, so he headed there first. As he suspected, when he arrived, he found the detective sprawled across the couch. It seemed this was a four patch problem.

"You bloody git! What in the hell did you think you were doing, walking out of there like that?"

Sherlock looked up at him, startled. This confused John. No one startled Sherlock. Even when he was in his _mind palace_ , he could sense others around him.

"I-I needed some air."

_Did he just stutter?_

"You tosser! You walk in there like you own the place and you hardly say a word to Molly except to demand her to get you some experiment. Then, when you do talk, you taunt her and mock her until she tells you her theory."

Sherlock at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"And when she gets it right, what do you do? Do you congratulate her? Do you thank her? Do you smile at her? NO! You bloody don't even acknowledge her after she makes a brilliant deduction that you yourself could have made! Did you even think about how that might have made her feel? Did you?"

"I'm...I'm sorry-"

"I'm not the one you should apologize to, Sherlock."

He looked up with wild eyes.

"I can't go back in there. I just-I can't."

John was about to start yelling again when he thought of something, something he forgot to consider earlier.

"Sherlock, why did you leave so suddenly?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence. John was seriously starting to get annoyed by this childish behavior. It was so much worse than usual.

"SHERLOCK!"

"I couldn't take it anymore!" he burst out and jumped up, his fingers running through his hair roughly.

"Couldn't take what?" John asked, gently this time.

"Her! I mean, did you even see her when we walked in? Her hair was down and all wavy and you could smell the lavender all over the morgue, God, the lavender."

John stands in shock as he watches his friend rant, using his hands dramatically for emphasis as he paces, something he's notices Sherlock seems to do a lot when it comes to Molly.

"And she didn't wear make-up today! Her blush is so much more noticeable when she doesn't wear it. It was like she was taunting me. Then we're standing there, and she's bloody _deducing_ perfectly with her hair and her cheeks are red and her eyes are flaming and it was like I couldn't control anything. I've never had that feeling before, John, never. All I could think about, all I wanted to do was just take her, throw her against the wall and - "

He cut off suddenly, his cheeks flaming red as he realized what he was saying. A smile slowly started to form on John's face.

"Sherlock, are you telling me that you left the morgue because you were...ahem, aroused?"

John starts to laugh, but quickly turns it into a cough when Sherlock glares at him.

"Yes, John. As you so eloquently put it, I was 'aroused.'"

If possible, Sherlock's cheeks became redder. This was like Christmas for John. How often do you get to see Sherlock Holmes uncomfortable and...well, human?

"Mate, you do realize there's an easy solution to all this, right?"

John was stunned to see the redness travel to Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, well, I...I,um, already took care of that," Sherlock said, refusing to meet his eyes.

"What?" John asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide with realization, then disgust. "Oh my God! Sherlock! Seriously, too much information!"

Sherlock just stood there, shifting his weight on his feet, still refusing to meet John's eyes. Once John's initial repulsion at Sherlock's admission had subsided, he continued.

"That...that is _not_ what I meant. I meant, you should ask her out on a date."

Sherlock finally turned to look at him.

"John! I thought you weren't an idiot. Of course I can't ask her out. Really, of all the stupid ideas!" Sherlock retorted sharply as he stalked over to his chair. John sighed as he went to _his_ chair. This Sherlock, at least, he was used to.

"And why can't you ask her out? You have feelings for her, she had feelings for you. It's rather simple really. Wait, don't tell me you've still got that stupid hatred of anything domestic. I swear, Sherlock, if you let yourself miss out on happiness just because you don't want commitment, then-"

"Again, don't be stupid, John. Of course that's not the reason. Although that is something I still believe, Molly would be an exception to that theory."

Sherlock offered no more explanation. John was considering punching him in the face. Did he really have to be so vague about everything? Why couldn't he, for once, just give a straight answer about something?

"So why can't you ask her out?"

He sighed as if he was highly annoyed. "For her safety of course."

"Of course," John replied sarcastically. Sherlock just met him with a cold glare.

"Moriarty came after you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson just because you were my friends. Can you imagine what any other potential enemy could do to Molly if they learned how much I truly cared for her?"

This pulled John up short.

"I suppose I never thought of it like that," he admitted. "But I don't know if that's the best idea, Sherlock. Don't you think you should let her decide that."

"Of course not! I won't allow her to be put in harm's way. I have to do this to protect her."

Little did Sherlock Holmes know, his efforts were in vain. Nothing he could do would protect his beloved pathologist.


	4. Sherlock's Apology

_I'm sorry. Two words. I'm sorry. It should be very simple. You brought down Moriarty's entire web of criminals. You should be able to say two words to Molly Hooper. This is absolutely sickening. Look at you. You've become a sentimental fool, just like the rest of them._

Sherlock had been standing outside the doors of St. Bart's morgue for the past twenty minutes as he tried to decide what he was going to say to the pathologist. At first he thought he should flatter her, but he quickly decided against it. She would more than likely see through it now, and that would only get him into more trouble. So, he figured simple and sincere would be the best option. However, for some reason he just couldn't make himself go through those doors.

"Sherlock?"

_Perfect timing, John._

"Yes, John?"

"Why are you standing outside the morgue?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock. Have you even gone in there yet? I went to see Mary to give you time to apologize. Bloody hell, Sherlock, it's been nearly half an hour. Have you just been standing here this whole time?" he hissed quietly. Again, Sherlock didn't answer. At first.

"I - I don't know what to say."

At John's face, he changed his sentence.

"I mean, I know _what_ to say, I just don't know how to say it. This isn't exactly my area of expertise, John."

"Sherlock, you're really over thinking this here. Just go in and apologize. Simple as that."

"Alright, but you are coming with me."

"What? Why?"

"That way if I screw up you can fix it," Sherlock replied with a smile. He turned on his heel and burst through the doors without giving John a chance to respond.

"Bloody bloke's a right git," John mumbled as he followed.

As Sherlock walked in, he took in the room. It was the same as always and he felt soothed by the familiarity. As he saw Molly, he noted, thankfully, that her hair was pulled into a twist today. She was facing away from him, humming lightly as she stitched up a corpse. He had secretly always found this habit of hers rather endearing, though he doubted she even knew she did it.

"Good afternoon, Molly," he said politely. He looked to John for approval, and was rewarded with an encouraging nod.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" came the annoyed reply. Sherlock frowned as the pathologist continued with her work, paying him no attention. Well, this was not part of the plan. Again, he looked to John who just made odd hand gestures. Honestly, this whole concept was asinine. This was why he avoided relationships in the first place.

"It has come to my attention that I may have acted rudely toward you the last time I was here. I just wanted you to know that it had nothing to do with you and that I sincerely apologize," he rattled off quickly in the deep voice he used when he usually needed special access to something. There, that wasn't so bad. Wait, why was John shaking his head? And why on earth did he just smack face into the palm of his hand.

"Sherlock, I already asked you what you wanted. There's no need to make empty apologies. You have full access to the lab and the morgue, as always. So you can stop playing nice. We both know you don't mean any of it, you never have," she said, her back still turned and without a tremor in her voice.

Sherlock stood stunned. He ran back over his words, and then saw his mistake. He had spoken to her as he used to. Of course she thought he was toying with her. Stupid. He hadn't sounded sincere at all. He merely sounded as though he was giving her yet another false compliment, something he hadn't done since before the fall. Which, he thought, might have made her even angrier.

However, before he could even open his mouth to rectify his mistake, the doors burst open. He looked over to see Lestrade. _Honestly, the man has the worst timing in the world. If he wasn't at least somewhat intelligent, I might hate him as much as Anderson._

"I'm not even surprised you're here this time, Sherlock," Lestrade grunted as he walked over to the three of them.

Molly, at the sound of his voice, finally turned around. Sherlock felt his stomach twist and knot for some odd reason. Her eyes widened as she looked at the Detective Inspector.

"A bad one this time, then, Greg?"

Sherlock froze. It was one thing to call her Molly, everyone did. But no one called the D.I. Greg, not even John.

"Greg? Since when are you two on a first name basis?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and replied, "Well, Sherlock, some of us aren't socially challenged and are quite proficient at making friends."

Sherlock bristled. Maybe he did hate him as much as Anderson. He immediately turned his attention to the case to occupy his mind.

"So, what have you got now, Lestrade?"

His face turned grim. "It's pretty gruesome, actually. Looks like a copycat murder. Poor girl was mutilated."

"Oh god," Molly said, horrified.

"What murder were they copying?"

"The Black Dahlia."

Then, the girl was wheeled in. It truly was gruesome. Whomever had done this paid perfect attention to detail.

Suddenly, two phones rang at once. Lestrade answered his as Sherlock saw Mycroft's name flash across his home screen. He briefly considered ignoring it, but then thought better.

"What is it now, brother?"

"You're about to have another murder on your hands. Not the Dahlia, and not the one the Detective Inspector is currently being informed of. It seems someone has come out to play. I just don't know who. Be careful, brother."

The line went dead then. Sherlock felt the adrenaline start to pump through his veins. This was new, this was different. This was...this was different. Why didn't this feel as good as it used to? He looked over to Molly, saw the horrified look still on her face as she stared at the girl on the slab, and he realized why. _Ah, sentiment. Despicable. Bloody useless, in my opinion. Everything would be so much easier if it would just go away._ But then again, part of him, the part that loved that gleam in Molly's eyes, didn't want it to go away.

"They just found another one. Different kind. They say this one looks like Jack the Ripper himself did it," Lestrade said as he hung up his phone.

"I suspect you'll be getting another call soon. A reliable source just informed me there's another, most likely another Ripper girl as that case had multiple victims where as the Dahlia only had the one."

As if on cue, Lestrade's cell rang. As he answered it, John came over.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes. Very astute, John."

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, but I actually think I don't like it."

Lestrade hung up again and turned to Sherlock.

"I don't care how you knew, I just want you to figure this out as soon as possible. We've found three girls mutilated in the past two hours. Bloody hell, what kind of sick bastard does this?"

"Well, then, shall we head to the crime scene." As he turned to go, he looked back to Molly. "Goodbye Molly. It was lovely seeing you," he said, trying to sound sincere this time. His heart dropped when she rolled her eyes and turned her back on him.

Sherlock let out a huff as the climbed into Lestrade's car. The Detective Inspector chuckled good-naturedly at the pouting detective.

"Look, mate, when it comes to angry women, a flirtatious smile isn't going to get you very far."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said. Lestrade just laughed again as he drove.

Once they arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock did everything he could to put Molly at the back of his mind. However, with this case, it turned out to be easier than he thought.


	5. A Series of Murders

Two weeks into the case, and they were nowhere. There had been three more Ripper victims, going along with the canonical five victims. And, what was worse, the names were even the same: Mary Ann, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Mary Jane, and in that order. It was an exact copycat. The only thing off was the timing, as if this criminal was impatient for his work to be seen.

The girls had all been found by the end of the second week. Sherlock had chased several false trails, and was growing increasingly furious. He, however, did have a slight clue as to what was going on. Lestrade, along with the rest of the yard, was completely lost. The only thing Sherlock had been able to determine was that the murderer was a male, mid 30s, average height.

"Can you tell anything, anything at all about him?"

"Lestrade, if I knew anything I would tell you. I'm not a miracle worker. Whoever this is, he's clever. he's covering his tracks, and he's covering them with _me_ in mind."

Lestrade saw the genuine frustration in Sherlock's eyes. He stopped asking after that.

* * *

After a month, another copy had emerged. Now, people were being poisoned. It seemed the Lambeth poisoner was being channeled now. The only difference with this one was that all the victims were women. Again, every path led the detective and his faithful blogger nowhere. Just when he thought he was close to the answer, it slipped from his grasp.

"How do you know for sure it's this Lambeth Poisoner you've been talking about? Toxicology says they've all been poisoned with different things."

"If you'd bothered to check, you'd know that the Lambeth Poisoner often used different poisons to kill his victims. He ranged from chloroform to strychnine. Honestly, Anderson, do your research."

Anderson flushed red. He didn't ask questions after that.

* * *

Nearly two months after the murders began, Sherlock received a letter in the mail. He knew immediately it was from the murderer, and he ripped it open with glee, hoping that he would finally have something to lead him down the right trail. However, what he found inside made his blood turn cold.

John had scrambled into the kitchen of 221B just as Sherlock tore open the envelope and out fell a picture. John stared, confused as his friend froze, his fingers gripped the photograph tightly, his jaw clenched, and his eyes filled with rage.

Ever since the case began, the consulting detective had done his best not to think of the pathologist, which wasn't that hard given the nature of this particular case. He slipped up more often than he would like to admit. However, he had never taken into account her safety. _Stupid. Of course she could be a potential target._

"Fuck!" Sherlock yelled, picking up a nearby vase and smashing it against the wall. Before John could stop him, Sherlock had grabbed his Belstaff and was rushing out the door, leaving him no choice but to follow.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John shouted from behind him. Sherlock hailed a cab and told the cabbie to go to St. Bart's.

"Molly," was his only reply as he tore his fingers through his hair.

"What? What are you on about? Look, I know you miss her-"

"No, you idiot. She's in danger."

"What in the hell makes you say that?"

"Think about it John, she fits the profile of the victims."

John sighed deeply. "I know, Sherlock, but just because-"

Sherlock roughly shoved the photograph into his hands. John looked down, and his stomach turned as he saw a candid shot of Molly leaning down to pet her cat, Toby. It must have been taken through the window of her flat.

"Turn it over," Sherlock said in a pained voice.

John did as he was told and saw a message. _I wonder if she'll scream like the others. Or, will she just beg for you to save her? Wouldn't you like to find out, Sherlock?_

"Oh shit."

Sherlock remained silent the rest of the cab ride, and jumped out before it even came to a full stop once they arrived. John paid the cabbie and rushed after him.

Sherlock had never felt this before. Sure, he had felt fear. He had felt it at Baskerville. He had felt it when Moriarty had threatened his friends. He had even felt it a few times when he was hunting down Moriarty's web. But he had never felt anything like this. This wasn't fear. This was pure terror. This was dread. It was as if he was in a nightmare he couldn't awaken from. No matter how fast he ran down the stairs and through the halls, he felt it wasn't fast enough.

He pushed through the morgue doors unceremoniously and searched. His eyes found her quickly, and he could finally breathe again. Without thinking, he rushed to her side.

"I'm not done with Ms. Harold yet, Sherlock. If you want to look at Ms. Winston, she's over there," Molly spoke in a tired voice as Sherlock approached her. Next thing she knew, she was being turned around and crushed into a warm chest. She tensed automatically. She could vaguely make out a door opening and assumed John had entered. _What does he think he's doing? Oh, shit, is he on drugs again? I knew this case was too stressful for him._

"Um, Sherlock...a-are you okay?" She mentally berated herself for stuttering.

As if breaking from a trance, he pushed her away suddenly, albeit gently. He held her at arm's length and he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in the past two months. He had avoided all thought of her as much as possible, and he could see now what he had been missing.

She had grown thinner, considerably so - probably due to multiple reasons. There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, obviously hasn't gotten over four hours of sleep a night since this started. Her skin was sallow and her hands had the tiniest tremor running through them. She most likely hadn't eaten in the past several hours, and not much in the last several days. However, given the way she was looking at the corpse in front of her, he was beginning to think it was more loss of appetite than lack of time stopping her. Molly had never been shy around the dead, but even Sherlock had to admit that this case was an exception. The past few weeks had taken their toll on his pathologist, and he was silently cursing himself for turning a blind eye to it.

"Yes, I'll look at her later," he said, ignoring her question and referring to her earlier statement about Ms. Harold. "But first we need to talk about you, Molly."

Molly looked up suddenly, her eyes widened in shock and her mouth parted slightly. Ah, how Sherlock had missed that surprised look on her face.

"What about me?"

"John and I believe it would be in your best interest, and by extension ours given that we need a fully functional pathologist on staff, if you were to temporarily stay at Baker Street."

Molly gaped and John, to his credit, merely rolled his eyes, resigned to the fact that Sherlock was going to do what he wanted whether he liked it or not.

"You...want me...to live with you and John."

Though Sherlock was slightly annoyed by her slow speech, he was glad that she had at least stated it instead of questioned it.

"Yes. You really haven't been taking care of yourself lately, Molly. Judging by the state of your skin, the bags under your eyes, and the significant weight loss, I'd say you've had roughly seven hours of sleep this week and you've had only a handful of meals. Should you stay with us, you would be under John's care. You really must keep your health up, seeing you're the only competent pathologist on staff."

Molly started to speak, but she stopped as Sherlock stepped closer to her, his eyes alight with a fire she had never seen.

"Not to mention the fact that you almost perfectly fit the profile of the victims. Really, Molly, you should be more careful. To think, you've been walking to your flat every night. Honestly, as if you could fight off an attacker. You're already fragile enough as it is, and now you've gone and gotten weak because of _sentiment._ It would only be too easy for someone to take you, to hurt you. What were you thinking, Molly? How could you be so stupid as to-"

"Sherlock!"

John's voice brought Sherlock back to himself. Upon his return, he realized that he had a very frightened and teary-eyed Molly's wrists grasped tightly in his hands. He also realized that none of his anger was directed toward her. He was furious with himself for not protecting her. He had tried to keep her at arm's length for her safety, but she was still in danger it seemed. And he had done nothing about it because he had been to blinded.

His face grew apologetic immediately and his eyes softened. "Molly, I am sorry. Please, forgive me-"

He was cut off by her hand roughly slapping his cheek as soon as he released her wrists.

"You bastard," she hissed. John saw that he needed to intervene, now.

"Molly, please, I know he's a bit of an arse, but he _is_ right. I do think it would be best for you to stay with us. The truth of it is, it's just not safe out there right now. You'd be safer with us. Please," he added desperately.

She stepped around a still shocked Sherlock to face John. She stared at him for a minute, as if contemplating. Finally, sighed. "Fine. I'll stay with you. Temporarily. But...John, keep him away from me."

And with that she stormed out of the morgue.

"Please tell me I don't have to explain what you did wrong," John said as he turned to his friend. Sherlock just glared at him.

"Right. Well, I suppose we should go prepare for our new flatmate."

* * *

"Well, the kitchen's right through here. And my bedroom's up here-"

"Don't be ridiculous John. You'll get an awful backache from the couch. I rarely sleep. She'll take my room."

She was surprised when he appeared out of thin air. She forced herself not to blush at his offer...no, command.

"I think I'd prefer the couch," she spat, fixing him with a hard glare. She could still feel his grip on her arms and hear the venom in his words. And all because of what? He was mad at her because it might inconvenient for him if she were to be murdered. He really was heartless after all.

"Don't be a fool, Molly. You won't get any sleep on that couch, and that would not be good for your health, now would it?"

"You-" She stopped. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. She knew John was standing off to the side, watching them like a tennis match, and she really didn't want to start a fight in front of him.

"You know what? Fine," she seethed, turning on her heel and storming toward his bedroom with her duffel bag in hand. At least, she was until she heard him mumble, "You could at least say thank you."

She paused. She turned. She glared. He paled.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, we are taking you in rent free, and I am offering you my bedroom-"

"I didn't _ask_ to be here. _You_ insisted on it. You forced me to be here 'rent free.' I told you I'd rather sleep on the couch, and you insist on my taking your bedroom. Not to mention the fact that John here is the only one who is actually concerned for me. Oh, don't look so shocked. You don't care about my safety, you just care about your access to the lab. And you actually had the nerve to get mad at me for, what was it? 'Putting myself in danger?' Well, I'm sorry that my potential death would be such an inconvenience for you, Sherlock. But don't you dare expect me to be grateful for being forced to live with a man who doesn't even know I exist until he wants to use me again, you selfish arse!"

She all but ran to the bedroom and slammed the door with a force that shook the flat.

"Sometimes, I really just wish you wouldn't speak."

"Sod off, John," he shot. He stalked to his chair and plopped down on it, immediately entering his mind palace.

Did she really think that little of him? Did she truly believe he thought that little of her? Sure, he'd been trying to keep his distance, but he thought she knew he at least he cared. He thought she knew she counted. But, he supposed, he had ruined that with his actions and words. She really thought he only wanted her for access to the lab. She didn't believe that he cared for her safety, she probably didn't even think he considered them friends. Oh how he hated these blasted emotions! Why did he always end up hurting her?

"John?"

"Yes, oh great King of Tact?"

Sherlock ignored his sarcasm and continued. "I have this deep ache. It's in my chest, but also in my stomach. I think I'm getting ill."

"The stomach thing, it's called guilt, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at him for a moment, contemplated arguing, but then decided it wasn't worth it. "I don't like it. What about the chest?"

"That's called heartache, and I'm willing to bet you're not the only one feeling it right now."

The ache in Sherlock's stomach grew worse.

* * *

Three hours later, John was sure that Sherlock was slowly going mad. And he meant this seriously. He had seen his friend eccentric, even a bit crazy before, but this was different.

"John, none of this makes any sense."

"What doesn't make sense, now, Sherlock?"

"Well, this criminal is a mastermind, a genius. He would have to be to evade me this long -" _Good to know at least his ego is still intact._ " - yet he's copying other murders. He could clearly come up with his own tag, his own gimmick. Why waste his time with what others have done? He's better than that, and he knows he's better than that. He's...John, why didn't I see it before?"

"What are you on about?"

"He's _trying_ to get my attention. That's why he sent the picture...which I would have seen if I wasn't blinded by _sentiment_. It truly is a chemical defect, but there's no time for that now. He's sending me a message. The picture means he's obviously mad I didn't see it earlier. He's mad at her, he knows that's why. But there's something I've missed, some small clue...I've got it."

"What, really?"

"Yes. It's rather obvious, really. I can't believe I missed it. All of the murders had something in common. They were copied from murders based in England during the 19th century. That is, except for the first. The Black Dahlia happened in Hollywood in the 20th century. The message lies with her, the first victim. We need to visit the scene of the crime."

"Sherlock, it's been months. Surely whatever was there-"

"He wouldn't have sent the photo if it wasn't still there."

A short cab ride later, and Sherlock was picking the lock of Miranda Johnson's former apartment.

"Look for anything out of the ordinary."

* * *

Two hours later, though, their search proved futile. They had completely torn the empty flat apart, but they had found nothing. They searched every room, but it seemed there was no hope.

"Sherlock, I don't think there's anything here anymore."

"It's here! I know it. Black Dahlia, Black Dahlia...blacklight! That's it!"

"Well, I don't have a ruddy black light, Sherlock - but of course, you carry one around in your pocket. That's normal."

Sherlock pulled said black light out and began searching the apartment again. The kitchen was clean, along with the living room, where the murder had occurred. However, he found what he was looking for in the bedroom. Hidden behind the bed, only visible with the black light, was another message.

_The game is on again. Did you miss me, Sherlock? - JM_


	6. A Dead Man's Threat

"But I - he was - well, shit," John mumbled as he read the message behind Sherlock's back.

"I should have known this would happen. If I could survive, why couldn't he? We _are_ the same. But I saw his body! I suppose...I suppose I was too distracted to accurately observe his actions. Somehow, he faked his death like I did. I should have _known_ this!"

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the flat.

"Sherlock, where are you going? It's five in the morning!" John called, racing after his friend who was now rushing through the busy night looking for a cab.

"We have to get back to Baker Street and check on Molly. If I thought Molly was in danger before, she definitely is now. No where is safe for her if this is Moriarty."

* * *

"Molly," Sherlock called as he burst through the door. His heart started to race when he received no reply.

"Molly!" he yelled, checking the kitchen and the sitting room on his way to the bedroom. When he found that was empty as well, he started to panic.

"Molly! John, she's not here. He's taken her."

"Sherlock-"

"We have to find him. If he's touched a single hair on her head..."

"Sherlock! She's fine, she's just-"

John was cut off again as the bathroom door opened, steam billowing out as it did.

"What are you two yelling about out here?" Molly asked, giving Sherlock an annoyed glare. Sherlock, however, could only gape at her towel-clad form.

"You - You were in the shower." He mentally smacked himself in the head. He really was starting to sound more and more like the common folk.

"Yes," she replied slowly, giving him a confused glance before shaking her head and snapping the glare back into place. "I thought you were above stating the obvious."

He quickly wiped his face of all emotion. "John, I'm going for a walk." And with that, he stormed out of the flat.

"Well, that was a bit overdramatic," Molly observed as she went to go change. Before she reached the bedroom, however, John stopped her.

"Molly?"

"Yes, John?" she said as she turned to face him. He had a nervous sort of look about him that put her on edge.

"Look, I know what you think about him, but go a little easy on him, okay?"

Her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

" _I_ should go easy on _him._ You do realize how incredibly awful that is to ask, don't you? Why should I? He certainly never went easy on me with his brilliant little _deductions_."

"I'm not saying it's fair, Molly. Trust me, half the time I want to smack him just as much as you do. But let me ask you this. Do you still love him?"

That brought Molly up short. Did she still love Sherlock? The man was absolutely infuriating. He hurt her more times than she could count, and he barely batted and eyelash. He had no sense of self-control, he was brutishly rude, and he made her want to tear her hair out the majority of the time she was around him. She completely hated him. So, yes, she was still head over heels in love with the git.

"Of course I do. But, you're acting like he actually _cares_ what I say to him."

"He does care, Molly. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it he does, especially where you're concerned."

"I wish that were true, John. I wish it were. I'm going to go get changed."

As she changed, she thought about what John had said. Maybe she should let up a bit. She _did_ love Sherlock and, regardless of his motives, he was keeping her safe. She was still thoroughly pissed at the way he had treated her, but she supposed she should be acting a bit more grateful...or at least a little less hateful.

* * *

Sherlock thought as he walked down the street in the chilly, early morning air. Molly's harsh words had... _hurt_ him. It was not because of what she said, he could care less about seeming slightly foolish, but because of how she said it. There was a bitterness in her voice, in her eyes, that he had never seen before, and he knew he was largely responsible for putting it there. And he hated himself for that. He, Sherlock Holmes, had finally broken through Molly's unfailing mercy. He felt like he had tainted her, made her impure in some way. She was supposed to be happy and optimistic despite whatever he said, and now he had corrupted that childlike innocence.

The worst of it was he knew he deserved it. He deserved every dirty glare or sarcastic comment she gave him. He had tried so hard to push her away, and he had done so successfully, but he had hurt them both in the process. He had made her doubt her value, which was unforgivable. Now, she was in more danger than ever. Moriarty knew he cared for her on some level, and he was going to use it against him. What he had been trying to avoid was happening anyway. All of his precautions had only convinced Molly that he didn't care. So, he mused, what was the point in staying away? Obviously he wasn't going to act on his feelings now. Moriarty needed to be dealt with first. But after that...if there _was_ an after that...maybe then he could tell Molly the truth. But in order for that to work, he needed to fix things now.

With a new-found resolve, he strolled back to 221B Baker street. As he walked in, he found a, thankfully, fully clothed Molly. John was nowhere in sight, but he was sure that was intentional.

"Sherlock," Molly said, startled as he walked in. He watched her still damp hair twisting around her slender neck as she turned to look at him. Unwittingly, an image popped into his head of her in only a towel, her soaked tendrils clinging to her neck and face, her eyes dark and hooded as she looked up at him with flushed cheeks... He shook his head swiftly.

"Molly," he greeted, his voice coming out a bit deeper than he intended. They stared at each other for a moment longer before both of them spoke.

"I'm sorry."

Each looked confused, wondering what the other had to apologize for. Before Sherlock could ask, Molly answered.

"I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I realize that having me in your home, especially while you're on a case, must be a huge inconvenience. Yet, you're allowing me to stay here. I know you're only doing it because you need my help at Barts, so I don't want you to think that I'm reading too much into it. Still, I appreciate it nonetheless, and I'm sorry that I haven't acted that way."

Sherlock gaped. Then, he laughed. He laughed fully and loudly.

"Are you- Oh sod off, you great git!"

She jumped up from her spot on the couch and began to march toward the bedroom, only for Sherlock to catch her around the waist.

"Molly, please, I'm not laughing at you," Sherlock said, his arms slipping around her.

"Oh really? It sure seems like it," she grumbled as she tried to pry his arms apart.

"Molly, I'm laughing because you have no reason to apologize."

She paused in her attempts and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock sighed. "Molly, I've treated you horribly and I know that. I'm very sorry for that. But you have no reason to apologize for standing up for yourself. In fact, you were quite right to tell me off last night."

He resisted the urge to smirk as he watched her cheeks grow red. "O-oh. Well then..."

She continued to stare at him in shock. He couldn't help but feel that this was right, holding her like this. But he could still see the fear, the doubt in her eyes. He would need time to prove he meant his words. He reluctantly released her as she grew more uncomfortable.

"Right, well. Apology accepted."

She gave him a shy smile before darting into the bedroom.

* * *

Later that day, John and Sherlock sat in the living room while Molly was taking a nap.

"So, did you talk to Molly?"

"Yes. It was very convenient of you to disappear for that particular conversation."

John just smirked.

"Have you talked to Lestrade yet?"

"Why would I have talked to Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as he typed away on his computer. He had wasted too much time today. He had to act fast if he was going to find Moriarty.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe to tell him a certain consulting criminal is still alive and kicking?" John said sardonically.

"Ah, that."

"Yes, that, Sherlock."

"Haven't decided if it's best to tell him yet. I'm trying to get more information first. Now that I know we're dealing with Moriarty, I can go back through the case and look at it from a new perspective."

"Right, of course."

Suddenly, Sherlock's mobile rang. He answered it swiftly, expecting Lestrade.

"Yes?"

_"Hello, love. Did you miss me?"_

Sherlock froze. Slowly, he brought his phone away from his ear and hit the speaker button so John could hear as well.

"Moriarty."

_"Yes, it really did take you an awfully long time to figure that out. I have to say, Sherlock, I'm a bit disappointed. Has she really gotten under your skin that much?"_

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock lied easily.

_"Don't LIE TO ME!"_

Sherlock, used to the crazed man's mood swings, waited for him to calm down.

_"You know what I'm talking about, but no matter. No, that's not really why I'm angry, Sherlock. Can you tell me why I'm angry?"_

"I'm guessing it has something to do with me taking down your network or..no, this is more personal. This is about Moran, isn't it? You didn't care if I took down the network, as long as Moran was safe, but he was the last one I killed right before I came back."

_"Very good, Sherlock. Yes, he was a favorite pet of mine, much like Watson or Hooper is to you. And I don't like it when people take my things."_

Sherlock felt dread growing deep within him. He knew whatever Moriarty had planned was not good. To his side, John looked concerned.

"So, what do you want this time? Want me to off myself again?" Sherlock spoke with more courage than he possessed. He would die, for real this time, if he must.

_"Oh, no. Where would be the fun in that? Then I wouldn't get to see you suffer. No, I'm going to take from you what you took from me."_

John looked at Sherlock in panic, but Sherlock was frozen to the spot. He had specified John and Molly earlier. He would lose both-

_"And, as I know it's probably running through your head right now, I will not take both of them. In fact, since I'm so nice and generous, I'll even let you decide. Who lives, Mr. Holmes? John Watson or Molly Hooper? You have until midnight to decide."_

The line went dead.

"Sherlock?"

He answered without looking up, as if in a trance. "I'm going to the Yard to talk with Lestrade. I'll also call Mycroft. We'll get security on you and Molly at all times. We have a little over eight hours to figure this out. Stay here with her."

He mechanically put on his scarf and coat as he headed for the door, but John stopped him with a firm grip on his arm.

"Sherlock, look, everything will be-"

"Don't let _anything_ happen to her," he breathed with such intensity that John released his arm.

"I won't."

Little did the consulting detective or the doctor know, but a certain pathologist had awoken ten minutes ago, and the walls in 221B were notoriously thin.


	7. A Woman's Prerogative

_"Don't LIE TO ME!_

Molly was woken from her light slumber by yelling. As she slowly came to her senses, she recognized the voice. It was a voice that used to haunt her in her dreams. She started hyperventilating as she heard Jim Moriarty's voice continue to rant in the sitting room, clearly on speakerphone as his voice was slightly garbled. Quietly, she crept over to the door and listened to the conversation unfold.

_"I'm going to take from you what you took from me."_

Molly was confused. What on earth did that mean? And how was he even alive?! She had seen his body on a slab. No, she hadn't performed the autopsy herself, but she had seen the report. Then again, she had faked Sherlock's report.

_"And, as I know it's probably running through your head right now, I will not take both of them. In fact, since I'm so nice and generous, I'll even let you decide. Who lives, Mr. Holmes? John Watson or Molly Hooper? You have until midnight to decide."_

Molly froze. She returned to the bed as she heard movement in the other room. Only after she knew Sherlock had left did she allow herself to contemplate what she just overheard.

One: Moriarty was alive. She paused. She didn't think she could fully try to grasp that without fainting, so she moved on. Two: He wanted to hurt Sherlock. That had always been obvious. Three: He was going to make Sherlock choose between John and herself. That was...surprising. Of course she didn't think Sherlock would ever willingly allow her to get hurt. He wasn't completely heartless. He would try to figure a way out of this where neither John, nor Molly would be harmed. However, Molly knew that if it came down to it and Sherlock had no other choice, there would be no contest. Of course he would pick John. Why would Moriarty even suggest that she was important enough to compete with John? Surely Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade even, would have been a better option.

Then Molly thought of something. What was it Mary had said once?

"You _are_ the woman who dumped Jim Moriarty. I bet he wasn't too happy about that."

At the time, Mary had been trying to give her a pep talk. Now however, her words filled Molly with dread. She indeed had humiliated Moriarty, in a sense. She doubted he had accounted for her breaking it off with him before he got the chance to do it himself. So was that what this was? Revenge? Was he trying to humiliate her by pointing out to her how devastatingly unimportant she was to the man she loves? Because if so, he had succeeded.

 _But,_ she thought, _that doesn't mean he has to win._

Molly was sure that Sherlock was currently working out how to keep both his best friend and his...pahtologist alive. However, she knew that if he failed, he would still have to make a choice or, even worse, he would wind up dead himself. She couldn't take the chance on either Sherlock or John being killed. She knew what she had to do. She looked over to the clock. _3:55._

_Eight hours. I have eight hours to contact Moriarty. But first things first._

Molly, stood up and walked over to her small duffel bag. She grabbed a simple white tank top and jeans. _No need to dress up for my execution,_ Molly thought. She pulled a light gray cardigan on to ward off the cold. Hair down, no makeup. She was going to die as simple, boring Molly Hooper, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

As she walked toward the door, she noticed a blank piece of paper on Sherlock's dresser. She remembered when John had told her of his conversation with Sherlock before the Fall. _"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note."_ She reached for a pen without thinking and took to the paper.

At first, she didn't know what to write. Should she tell her mother goodbye? She she leave Toby to someone? It all seemed so unimportant at the moment. No, there was only one person who she needed to leave this with.

_Dear Sherlock..._

* * *

She wiped the last few tears from her face as she capped the pen. She had done so well keeping her emotions in check, but now she just felt raw. She glanced at the clock. _5:12._ Seven hours.

Now, how would she contact Moriarty. She didn't have his number, obviously she had deleted that ages ago, and she had no idea where to find him. Then it came to her. Sherlock had told her that Moriarty had planted cameras in his flat prior to the Fall. While Molly was sure Sherlock had removed them all, she was willing to bet he had a few still lying around in places Sherlock frequented. She couldn't go to the Yard, Sherlock would be there. But...the morgue! She was willing to bet there were a few cameras there and that they had been recently used because of the murders. Now to get past John...

Molly steeled herself and opened the bedroom door. John was in the sitting room with a cup of tea. She could tell he had just picked up the book he was 'reading' to appear casual for her sake. He pretended to look pleasantly surprised to see her come around the corner.

"Good evening Molly. I was thinking maybe we could order some Chinese tonight. Does that sound good?" John said with a false smile. _Oh, if Sherlock could see you now he would smack you, John,_ she thought. She supressed the urge to grin at her thought.

"Actually I needed to run by the morgue. I left some paperwork there that needs to be finished. I can pick up something on the way back, if you'd like?"

She knew his response, but she had to try.

"I don't think you should leave the flat, Molly. It's not safe and-"

"I'm a grown woman, John Watson! I can go to work if need be and get there safely."

He paused, looking at her determined face and contemplating.

"Fine, but I'm coming with you."

She hadn't expected that.

"John, I'm fully capable-"

"I know you are, but I should probably get out of the flat anyway. Stretch my legs a bit."

"Right. Of course."

She put on a tight smile as he held the door open for her. Well, so much for that plan. The cab ride to St. Barts was filled with tense silence. Molly had to figure something out. She had to get John off her trail so she could talk to Moriarty. As they walked into the empty morgue, she realized what she, unfortunately, had to do.

"John, I'm really sorry about this," she whispered, just loud enough to get his attention.

"Sorry about what Mol-" He began to turn toward her, only to be met with a microscope to the head, effectively knocking him out. She winced at the loud thud as his body hit the ground. She ran the phone at the door.

"Yes, I need someone down here right away. A friend of mine just hit his head and passed out! Yes, thank you."

She felt rather proud of her contrite performance. After two attendants had carefully taken John up to the ER, she stood alone in the morgue. A glance at the clock. _6:38._

She took a deep breath before speaking. "Ji-...Moriarty?"

She waited in five minutes of silence before trying again.

"I know you can hear me, dammit. I know you still have cameras in here."

Five more minutes of silence.

"Don't you even want to hear what I have to say?" she tried a different tactic.

She waited ten minutes this time, and was about to give up, thinking maybe she had been mistaken, when her phone chimed.

_You're smarter than I gave you credit for, love. - JM_

She grimaced at the endearment, remembering how he used to call her that in his sweet voice...his fake voice.

"I want to make a deal," she spoke to the empty morgue, looking around wildly, not knowing where the camera was placed.

_And what makes you think that would happen? What could I possibly want from you? - JM_

"I know you want me dead. It's me or John, right?"

It was seven minutes before she got a response. She liked to imagine that she had surprised him.

_Kitten wasn't supposed to hear that. Then again, neither was the pup. I could hear him breathing when Sherlock put me on speaker phone. So, both of Sherlock's pets know about his little decision, then? Am I correct in assuming that since you knocked Dr. Watson out, they don't know you have knowledge of this? - JM_

"That's right. Listen, I want to make this easy for you. No choices, just me. Don't hurt John or Sherlock, just go ahead and kill me."

She was proud when her voice didn't tremor.

_How noble of you to give your life for your beloved and your friend. But, I'm afraid that's not how this works, my dear. Sherlock has to make the choice. Surely you know that. - JM_

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Oh please. You and I both know he'll do anything to find a way around it even getting himself hurt in the process. But we also know that if he really had to choose, he would choose John. We know that, so why postpone this? I know I'm going to die, I'd rather it be on my own terms if you don't mind."

The silence after that was the longest yet. After what seemed like at least twenty minutes, Molly finally got a response.

_Are you absolutely sure about your decision? - JM_

"Positive," she said without hesitation.

_Then meet me at the pool. If you know Sherlock half as well as I think you do, you'll know which one. You have two hours, Dr. Hooper. - JM_

Glance at the clock. _7:30._

Molly felt equal amounts of relief and dread, and the contrast of emotions was dizzying. She quickly left the morgue, knowing how little time she had. However, before she could make herself leave the hospital, she stopped by John's room. He was laid in a hospital bed. She felt awful when she saw the deep welt that had formed on his head. She knew she hadn't caused much damage, but she knew he'd be out for at least another hour.

"I'm sorry John."

She looked around for paper to leave him a note, but found none. With no other choice, she opened up her phone and typed out a message. After all, she wouldn't need the blasted thing after tonight.

_I'm sorry, John, but I had to. You would do the same if you were in my position. Please, look after him. Mike will find another pathologist, but I can't promise they'll want to work with Sherlock or that Sherlock will like them. You know how he is. He really is a creature of habit. Make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble and keep him safe. Than you, John. For everything. You have been a wonderful friend._

_Love, Molly xxx_

She sat the open phone on the table beside his bed. He would understand, she knew. And Sherlock...he would be fine. Her heart clenched at the thought. He would be just fine. After a month or two, it would be as if she never existed. She knew it was better that way, better that he wouldn't suffer, but she couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed.

After she left the hospital, she stopped by her flat one last time. However, she soon noticed two men following close behind her. She didn't think they were Moriarty's men, he already knew she was coming. No, must be Mycroft's then. She suddenly turned a random corner into an alleyway. She ran down it as fast as her legs would carry her and jumped the fence at the end. She turned and saw the men had just rounded the corner. She ran down another alley, then another, and she kept taking more turns and curves until she was sure she had lost them. Finally, she arrived at her apartment building.

She quickly let herself in and then pressed her back against the door, breathing deeply. She looked over her flat, the odd feeling of it being the last sight washing over her. She took in the old, worn couch she had inherited from her father after he passed. She saw the various knickknacks adorning every inch of free space. She really was a pack rat. She looked at the scuff on the floor just at the edge of the living room from when she moved in, and the scratch marks on the upholstery of her dining chairs from Toby. Speaking of Toby...

She felt a warm fur rub up against her leg and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked down at Toby, and leaned down to pet him affectionately.

"Hey boy. I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Listen, someone else is going to be taking care of you from now on, but I love you, alright boy?"

Molly held back the tears that threatened to spill over as the cat just turned his head to the side at her. She just chuckled and gave him a watery smile while she scratched behind his ears. As she fed him, she looked to the clock. _8:45._ Time to go. Then, she remembered the gun in her dresser drawer that her father had given her for self-defense. If she was going out, she could gout out swinging, couldn't she?

Molly left her flat five minutes later and hailed a cab. She gave the cabbie directions, and then let her brain shut off. If she spent the twenty-minute drive thinking, she knew she would break, and for what she was about to face, she needed all the strength she could muster. Maybe that was shy Sherlock shut off his emotions. Maybe it was better that way...

As the cab stopped, Molly's heart raced. She gave the cabbie the contents of her wallet, much to his satisfaction, and ventured out into the night. The pool was already lit up and unsurprisingly empty. She took Moriarty for the 'leave them hanging in suspense' type.

"Alright, I'm here. Let's get this over with," she yelled, her voice much more confident than she felt.

"Not until you throw that gun into the pool," came a voice from above, though she couldn't locate it. She froze at the statement. _Shit._

"What gun?" she bluffed miserably.

"Come now, Molly. Let's play nicely. Surely you knew I had cameras on your apartment as well. No? Ah, well. Now, be a dear and toss the gun."

Sighing, Molly pulled the weapon from where it was tucked in the back of her jeans and tossed it in the pool. Her last chance at survival plopped into the water with an ominous splash. At least, it was ominous to her as it echoed throughout the space.

"Honestly, now, Molly," the voice came from behind her now, and she jumped as she turned to see Moriarty only a few feet behind her.

"I thought you had agreed to be compliant. It really is bad manners to show up with a weapon. That is not what we had agreed upon."

Though his words should have been angry, his tone was light, as if he was amused by her actions. In fact, his face held a small smirk as he looked at her.

"It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. Besides, you can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

She raised a brow at him, internally proud of herself for holding it together and not cowering in fear. Perhaps knowing of your imminent demise made you a little bolder. Or, perhaps it was the adrenaline rush. She could see why Sherlock loved it.

"No, I suppose not. I have to say, you have rather impressed me today, Molly. Are you sure you want to go through with this? Now that Sherlock has destroyed my web I find myself in need of a new pet, and you've proved you would be quite useful."

While he said this he stepped closer to her, invading her personal space and reaching up to catch a lock of her hair between his fingers. She visibly flinched.

"I'd rather die, if you'd please," she spat out, disgusted.

His demeanor changed abruptly. His face grew cold and angry, his eyebrows drawing together as he glared at her.

"So be it," he hissed, then made a quick movement. She felt a sharp sting in her neck, and then all she knew was blackness.


	8. A Man's Heart

"What do you mean, Moriarty is alive?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He simply did not have time for this nonsense. He was already down to...he glanced at the clock.  _Five hours._

"Exactly what I said, Lestrade. He faked it somehow, just like I did. Now, if you'd stop asking idiotic questions, we have to find him, quickly. John and Molly's lives are at stake."

"Molly? What has Molly got to do with any of this? How did you manage to drag her into this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at the Detective Inspector. "I did not drag her into anything. I do not wish for her to be involved in this anymore than you do and I will die to protect her. Is that understood?" he hissed.

To his credit, Lestrade looked slightly terrified. "So, how are they in danger?"

"All you need to know is that they are both in danger, and that they need to be kept under surveillance. I've already got some of Mycroft's men, but I wouldn't mind extra. They're both currently at Baker Street."

He nodded lightly. "Alright. If you really think so, I'll call it in."

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. "Really? Just like that? I was prepared to do a bit more convincing."

"I made the mistake once of not trusting you, and it nearly cost four lives, including my own. If you say Moriarty's back and he's after John and Molly, I can spare a few men to watch them."

It was a rare moment indeed when Sherlock Holmes looked at Gregory Lestrade with something akin to respect and uttered a sincere, "Thank you."

He then walked out the door, and Lestrade followed him, ready to once again investigate the serial murders.

* * *

Sometime later, they had made minimal progress.

"We know he's been trying to get my attention. All of this was for me, which is actually quite sickening. We know he's been keeping a low profile. He's been travelling recently. Come on, think!"

He was interrupted by the chime of his phone. He pulled it out and nearly blanched.

_Meet me at the pool in half an hour. Maybe we can finally settle this. How does that sound? - JM_

Sherlock was confused by his sudden change of heart. Well, perhaps that wasn't the right phrase since Moriarty didn't have a heart. His change of mind, then. Perhaps they were on to him. Not likely since they didn't have much. Or, perhaps he knew that Sherlock would give his life for them anyway. He was bored of Sherlock's boring, human tendencies and wanted to finish his game once and for all. Good.

"Lestrade, I've got some more information back at Baker Street. I'll go fetch it and meet you at the morgue to examine the latest body."

"Alright. Will you bring Molly?"

Sherlock contemplated his answer. Of course he wouldn't bring Molly, but then he wouldn't be coming to the morgue anyway, so what would it matter. But then again, he wouldn't mind annoying that new pathologist that's been flirting with Molly.

"No, call Hart to come in. I'd rather Molly stay with John. Besides, Mycroft's men are already stationed there."

"Right. I'll see you at Bart's then."

Sherlock nodded, then turned and walked out.

* * *

At roughly 7:15 two officers were shot and killed just seven miles outside their precinct. It's a shame that their bodies were thrown into the river and weren't discovered until morning. It's also a shame that these two officers were just sent to watch John and Molly. Perhaps if they had ever reached their destination, 221B Baker Street, they would have realized that the subjects in question were not there. They would have phoned their superior, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who would have then informed his companion Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock would might have (would have) been able to work out where the two were. Then, perhaps, Molly would not have made it to the pool at nine o'clock. However, these officers were killed by James Moriarty.

Several miles away, Mycroft Holmes was called to an emergency business meeting lasting many hours. His phone was, unfortunately, on silent when a few of his men tried to call him. Perhaps if he had answered the call, he would have known that they had lost Molly Hooper. He also could have informed Sherlock, who then, again, might have (would have) found her, thus avoiding her nine o'clock visit to the pool. However, James Moriarty subtly made his presence known to a few key members of government, making this emergency meeting necessary.

James Moriarty always did like to try his hand at playing with fate.

* * *

Sherlock stepped out of the cab, once again looking at the building in front of him.  _It makes sense that it would end where it all began. The final problem concludes where I had my first case._

The lights were on, but it was empty, much like it was the last time he was here. Moriarty did always like to make an entrance. And this time, he didn't have back-up. Sherlock briefly wondered if he would be able to over-power him. Then again, Moriarty probably had a plan for that. Best to just let this end here, let the people he loved finally be safe.

His phone buzzed. He looked down.  _John_. He turned it off quickly.

"Hello again, darling."

Sherlock didn't bother turning toward the voice. He knew Moriarty would be hidden at first, most likely making his way down from where he had been waiting at a vantage point.

"Moriarty."

"Did you miss me?"

"Shockingly, no," he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Oh, come now. Be honest." Sherlock was confused to hear his voice slightly out of breath, but closer now.

"Honestly, I was quite happy when I thought you dead."

"Well, that's not very nice. And to think, I had a surprise for you."

Sherlock heard footsteps behind him and finally turned around.

His heart stopped. Then picked up again at double speed.

"Molly."

* * *

On the other side of the city, Lestrade, was highly confused.

"What do you mean Molly's been here?"

Mike Stamford rushed through his answer, frightened of the angry detective.

"Well, she came in a few hours ago with John Watson. Clumsy dear accidentally let the swinging door hit him in the head, knocked him out cold. He's up in the ER. Normally wouldn't be out this long for something like that, but she insisted on giving him painkillers for the headache. Poor girl felt dreadful about it. She left awhile ago."

Lestrade was walking away before he finished, heading to find John. He burst through the doors of the ER.

"Detective Inspector. Show me where John Watson is. Now!"

A terrified nurse pointed shakily to a nearby room and he strode quickly into it. John was starting to wake up, and Lestrade noticed an open phone sitting on his bedside. Molly's phone. He picked up and read the message, but he couldn't make any sense of it. Beside him, he heard John started talking.

"John, I'm sorry, I know you're just waking up, but I need to know what this means. Can you make any sense of it?"

He handed him the phone. John looked at it wearily for a moment, then his face grew horrified as he comprehended what he was reading.

"No. Oh no, we have to stop this. Shit!"

"What, John? What does  _this_  mean?"

"It means she's giving herself over to Moriarty," he said as he ripped his IV out and threw his legs over the side of his bed.

"She's what?"

"Look through her phone. Moriarty contacted Sherlock by phone. See if he did the same for her."

Lestrade quickly went through her messages and saw many from a blocked number. They were all signed JM.  _Bingo._

"It says they're meeting at the pool. What pool, where is that?"

"Shit, the pool where Carl Powers was killed. Get your men there now and I'll call Sherlock, he'll get there faster. He's probably closer than we are."

Lestrade quickly called the Yard and ordered a back-up team at the pool. However, there were complications.

"What do you mean you don't have enough men?"

_"Sir, nine bodies were just uncovered in the last hour. It's like all the freaks came out to play tonight. I'll do what I can, but for now, it's gonna have to just be you."_

"Fine, Donovan."

He hung up, and saw that John didn't seem to be having much better luck. They started walking through the halls of the hospital, hurriedly heading out to the streets of London.

"What is it?"

"Git's not answering his phone."

"I don't understand why, he was just going to Baker Street then he was going to meet me here."

"Wait, he was going to Baker Street?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He would have seen that Molly and I weren't there, assumed the worst, and gone after Moriarty himself?"

"Shit. Do you think he's at the pool?"

"Probably. I just hope we get there in time," John said as he hailed a cab.

* * *

There, lying limp and pale in Moriarty's arms, was Molly. Her eyes were open and slightly glazed over, and Sherlock let out a strangled sound.

Moriarty looked disgusted. "Really Sherlock, the help?"

He let go of her body, intending to let her fall roughly to the cement floor at the edge of the water, but Sherlock rushed over to grab her just in time. He fell to his knees and hugged her to him. She was cold and light in his arms, completely unmoving, her eyes not meeting his as he held her. He cupped her cheek, expecting to see the blood rush to it in the familiar blush he was so accustomed to. It did not. She did not blush. She did not stutter or laugh shakily. She did not look at him in adoration, or look away nervously, or look up at him through her eyelashes. She did not smile shyly or bite her lip enticingly. She did nothing. So many things that made her Molly Hooper. So many little things he took for granted until they were gone.

A single tear fell to her cheek. He leaned down and softly kissed it away. "I am sorry, forgive me."

Then lifted his hand to close her eyelids, blocking out those big, doe brown eyes. And he felt his heart-break. He was wrong when he thought he never had a heart. He always did, but it had never been his. It was hers. Molly Hooper held his heart all this time, and if she was broken, it was broken with her. But beneath his anguish, he felt a fury unlike anything he had ever known. He had known anger, yes, but this was as blinding as the sun. One thought consumed him in that moment. Moriarty had done this to her, Moriarty must die.

Sherlock turned slightly and glared at Moriarty. "We had a deal," he screamed in rage. "I had until midnight."

"Calm down, love. I didn't break our deal," he said, a small smirk on his face.

"Then why is she here?" Sherlock seethed, still refusing to let go of Molly's body.

"She's here because she brought herself here, darling. And  _that_  is nobody's fault but your own. Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock, especially if you don't know how to handle it."

Sherlock paused, disoriented by his words. "What? She wouldn't have-"

"She had this on her. It's addressed to you. Go on, look for yourself."

Moriarty thrust an envelope in his face. Sherlock took it from his hands slowly, suspicious of the man. He knew of the games he liked to play. However, there was no mistaking the handwriting when he saw his name scrawled on the outside of the envelope. He frantically tore it open and found a letter inside. He stopped before he read it. These were Molly's last words to him. He opened it carefully and could almost hear her voice reading it aloud.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_By the time you find this, I'll be dead. I know you'll think my decision incredibly foolish, but I had to do it. If you think about it logically, this was the best option. The world needs you, Sherlock. You have to stop him, you do. And we both know you couldn't handle it if you lost John, whether you'd like to admit that or not. He's your best friend, Sherlock, and I couldn't let you lose him, not when I could do something about it. I know it will probably be hard for you to get used to the new pathologist, and they might not be as lenient as I was, but you'll be fine._

_There are a few things I'd like you to do, if you wouldn't mind. First, I don't want a big service. Just a few people. I only have my mother left, and I have very few in the way of friends, so that shouldn't be too difficult. Second, promise me that you won't drive the new pathologist completely up the wall. It takes a very special kind to deal with you, you know. Finally, could you find Toby a home? I don't expect you to take him. Just please make sure he doesn't end up at some shelter._

_I'm asking you all this because I know you can handle it, because...because I know I don't really count. It's okay, I want you to know that. I think in some small way, you may have cared a bit, but I know the truth Sherlock, and it's okay. But I want you to know that I always loved you. I never stopped, not for one second. I knew you could never feel the same, but I was happy to be able to help you, like I am now. That's why I'm doing this, Sherlock. This is what's best because you'll go on. In a few months time, you'll forget all about me and be just fine, and no one will miss me. That's why it has to be me. I love you so much, but, please, forget me._

_\- Molly xxx_

Sherlock couldn't breathe. Moriarty had not done this.  _He_ had. He foolishly, stupidly, had kept Molly at arm's length, trying to keep her safe, but it didn't matter. Moriarty found her anyway, and because he pushed her away, she died thinking she was unloved.

"Honestly, Sherlock, this doesn't suit you. These emotions, this... _sentiment._  It really has weakened you."

Sherlock ignored him, taking Molly's hands in his own, looking down at her face and...feeling something. But that...it couldn't be. It was! It was faint, but it was definitely there. He looked to her chest and saw the movement, leaned to her mouth and felt the breath. He wanted to smack himself. Moriarty was right, his senses had been weakened by sentiment lately, but they were still there. He began to laugh, half hysterical, half relieved.

"What?" Moriarty asked, suddenly nervous. "What's so funny? What did I miss?" Sherlock was reminded of that morning on the roof. Sherlock laid Molly down carefully and stood, coming face to face with Moriarty.

"It seems I'm not as completely idiotic as you think, though I do admit I have been rather foolish. What toxin was it? Wait, we're where it all began. And you call me sentimental. You poisoned her with botulism."

Moriarty glared as Sherlock circled him, looking as if he were about to scream. Then suddenly he smiled a feral smile.

"Well done. I'm so glad you figured it out. But you should have planned your steps more carefully."

Sherlock abruptly realized that Moriarty was now closer to Molly, and before he could act, the consulting criminal stuck his leg out and kicked his pathologist into the water.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, already lunging forward.

"I wouldn't."

The familiar click of the safety being released on a gun stopped him.

"Think about it logically, Sherlock. I shoot you, you can't save her. If you do manage to make it to the water without my bullet hitting you, I'll just kill you both when you get to the top."

Sherlock knew he was right. "What do you want?" he asked, already calculating the time Molly had left until she drowned. Average about three minutes, in her state probably two and a half, leaving her two minutes.

"To play a game, of course."

"I'm sorry, I don't play your games anymore."  _1 minute, 45 seconds._

And Sherlock lunged, but not for the water. He tackled the shocked Moriarty easily. Getting the gun was a bit more difficult. However, after a good punch in the ribs and knee to the groin, Sherlock had the gun against the man's temple.  _30 seconds._

"You don't really want to-"

"Oh yes. I do." He pulled the trigger.

Without wasting any time, he dove into the pool. He found Molly at the bottom, her hair floating around her making her look angelic. No, not angelic. Alive. Yes, alive. He scooped her into his arms and swam to the surface as fast as possible. He broke the surface with a gasp, swimming to the edge quickly while keeping Molly's head above water. He heaved her onto the cement, his hand immediately going to her wrist.

He couldn't feel it. Her pulse, it wasn't there. He couldn't feel it. Her chest wasn't moving either.

"No. No, no, no. Molly, no."

He pushed against her chest, instantly performing CPR. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe.

He repeated the process over and over, getting nowhere. He was vaguely aware that hot tears were pouring down his face, mixing in with the chlorine water.

"Molly, please," he begged, as he continued to pound at her chest. "I already thought I lost you once tonight. I can't do it again."

Nothing. He collapsed on top of her, his ear against her heart.

"Please," he whispered, giving one last thump against her chest.

Then, Sherlock heard the two most beautiful noises he'd ever heard, and would ever hear, in his life. The increasingly steady thrum of a heartbeat, followed by a shuddering gasp of breath.


	9. A Love's End

"Molly?"

She couldn't respond, of course, but he could feel her steady breathing now, and he cried out in relief. He reached down and opened her eyelids, staring into those lovely brown irises he thought he would never see again.

"Molly, if you can hear me, if your conscious, breathe deeply twice."

Two deep breaths. He laughed shortly, pulling her into his arms and taking her face in his hands.

He leaned down, gazing at her intently, his face inches from her own. "You stupid-" her laid his lips gently to her forehead "-amazing-" her left cheek "-foolish-" her right cheek "-absolutely wonderful woman. Don't you ever do that to me again." And then he laid the softest kiss on her lips.

He heard footsteps coming quickly and he pulled away, but did not take his eyes off hers.

"Lestrade, get an ambulance here now. Molly's been poisoned. She'll be fine, but she needs medical attention quickly."

"How did you - Oh, nevermind." He took out his cell and called in for an ambulance. John rushed over, his doctor instincts kicking in.

"What was it?" he asked, taking her vitals.

"Botulism. He pushed her in the pool," Sherlock said softly. John looked to his friend, horrified. He was shocked to see the emotions written plain as day across Sherlock's face. Their was clearly anguish, and he could see the tears tracks staining his cheeks, but he could also see the pure adoration for the woman in his arms as he stared down at her. If John had ever doubted that Sherlock loved Molly, he didn't now.

"Where is he? Did he get away again?" John asked, hoping the answer would be a negative. The world would be a much better place with Moriarty behind bars.

"Other side of the pool."

John looked over, expecting to see the criminal tied up, or unconscious perhaps. Instead, he was shocked to find the left side of his face covered in blood and brain matter. He looked back to Sherlock, his eyes wide.

"Sh-Sherlock. You didn't-"

"Self defense. No jury in the world would convict me for that," he mumbled, looking up at John for the first time, a slight dare in his eyes. John just nodded mutely. If he were in the same position and it was Mary, he reasoned, he would have done the exact same thing.

"Right, the ambulance is on it's way." He paused as he looked over to Moriarty's body, then sighed. "And I suppose I should get forensics over here as well."

"No need, it was self defense," John said, looking pointedly at Lestrade. Lestrade looked at him with a question in his eyes, then his eyes shifted over to the consulting detective, who had now returned his attention to the woman lying in his arms. And it clicked for him

"Right, self defense clearly. That's obvious for this one, no need for the team. I'll just call the coroner to pick up the body."

Inside Molly's head, where she was trapped in her own body as if she were in a coma, she was freaking out.  _What in the bloody hell is going on?_

Sherlock just kept holding her and looking into her eyes, whispering words of comfort.  _I must be dreaming. Whatever Moriarty gave me is making me hallucinate. There's no other explanation for it. I might as well enjoy it._

Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair, and she was glad she couldn't speak or she might have let out an embarrassing moan at the sensation.

He leaned down, caressing her cheek with his callused thumb, and she would have shivered if she could. He placed another soft kiss on her lips, and she gasped lightly, still in control of her respiratory system. She heard her gasp mirrored by two males.

"I love you, Molly Hooper," he whispered, his lips at her ear.

And she promptly fainted.  _Well, it was a nice hallucination while it lasted._

* * *

When she came to, the first thing she noticed was a loud beeping. As she blinked her eyes open, she was blinded by the white walls of a hospital room. Her throat felt parched, and she tried to clear it.

"Molly?"

It was only then that she noticed the messy mop of dark curls that had been resting on her hand. He was sat in a chair at her bedside, his cheek red from where his face had been pressed against her arm indicating that he had dozed off for a while. Exactly how long had he been sitting with her?

She was surprised when he jumped from his seat and gathered her gently in his arms.  _Is he actually hugging me? What the - what's going on here._  He pulled back slightly and gazed into her eyes, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't a bit frightened by the intensity in his eyes.

"Sherl-"

She tried to say his name, but before she could even get it out she coughed roughly. He sprang into action, reaching over to the nearby table and pouring her a glass of water. She took it gratefully, nearly gulping down the entire thing in one go.

"Better?"

"Much. Thank you," she said, smiling shyly. They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Well, awkward for her. He seemed content to just sit there and look had her with that same intensity.

"Um, Sherlock, not that I mind, but why are you here?"

His stare finally faltered as his eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Molly, you nearly died."

She raised an eyebrow at this.

"Yes, Sherlock. So?"

He looked dumbfounded. For a moment, he couldn't speak, and Molly Hooper wondered if she should mark this occasion. She had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless, though she had no idea why.

" _So?_  Molly, you walked willingly to your death. You gave yourself over to Moriarty! If you think that I'm letting you out of my sight after that, you are sadly mistaken," he huffed.

"I...I'm sorry, I don't understand."

And she didn't. Molly racked her befuddled mind to find an answer for why Sherlock was acting so...protective? Was that even the right word for this? Surely not. He wouldn't be protective of her. He didn't care about what happened to her. Well, he probably wouldn't want her to die, but that was purely about his own convenience.

He sighed and stood abruptly, beginning to pace as he ran a hand through his curls frustradely.

"Of course you don't," he grumbled.

Molly bristled. "Well, I'm sorry we can't all be the brilliant Sherlock Holmes and know what someone's thinking based on their shoelaces!"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked to her with a panicked expression.

"No, Molly, that's not what I meant. I meant it's my fault you don't understand. This entire situation has been my no one's fault but my own, and for that I am truly sorry Molly Hooper."

Now she was really confused.

"What? Sherlock, you're not making any sense. Please, explain. And I mean in a way that normal people can understand, not Sherlock language."

He gave her a slight smirk before looking at her quite seriously.

"Molly, I am in love with you."

Surely she hadn't heard him right. Could she have suffered damage to her ears? Or brain damage perhaps? Actually, it was more likely that she was hallucinating. Then, she remembered lingering touches, soft kisses, and those same whispered words by the pool. Suddenly, she felt light-headed. Her chest was tight and her vision was growing blurry. She wondered vaguely why this was. Oh, that's right. She wasn't breathing. She took in a deep shuddering breath.

"Molly?" he asked timidly. If she didn't know any better, she would say he looked nervous. But she did know better. This was Sherlock Holmes. The man who had treated her horribly for years, the man who ran hot and cold, who toyed with her emotions for his own personal gain. She had already been willing to die for him. Why did he insist on hurting her like this?

"What do you want?" she spoke, her voice calm and quiet. Confusion crossed his features before they took on a heart-broken look. She briefly considered smacking it off and telling him to drop the façade.

"I don't want anything from you," he replied softly.

"Liar," she shot back. His head cocked to the side.

"You're upset," he said, his voice contrite.

"No shit, Sherlock." He flinched.  _Good,_  she thought.

"Molly, I-"

"After everything I did, everything I would still do, how could you - I...how dare you?" She yelled. He looked shocked for a moment. She didn't blame him. She had shocked herself with her outburst. However, when she continued, her voice was barely above a whisper and was shaking as she held back tears. "Why are you doing this?"

"Molly, please, listen to-"

"No!" she yelled again, her mood swings surprising her. "No, for once you're going to shut up and listen to me. Why are you doing this? Is it because you think I'm upset with you about Moriarty and your precious lab access is in jeopardy, because I can assure you that's not the case. Do you need to sneak an entire body to Baker street? Huh, Sherlock? Or is this some experiment? You need some willing participant so you can test a theory about romance or emotions or some bloody sentimental thing like that? And you figured mousey Molly Hooper would just jump at the opportunity with enough flattery. Of course she'd forgive you for not really meaning whatever you said because she's stupid and pathetic. Is that it Sherlock? You know what, I don't even care about the reason. It doesn't matter. All that matters is what you're doing, because, honestly Sherlock, you've done a lot of horrible things in the past, but I have to admit, this is a new low, even for you."

She was shaking with rage, but she could feel the hot tears rolling down her face that gave away her inner anguish. She desperately wished they would stop. She didn't want to seem even more vulnerable in front of him.

"Molly, no. None of that is true. Please, just let me explain-"

"Get out."

He froze momentarily, wondering if he had heard her correctly. When she made no attempt to repeat herself, he assumed he hadn't.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said get out, Sherlock," she said again, a bit louder this time.

"No, I most certainly will not," he growled, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

"GET OUT!"

They both flinched at the pitch of her voice this time.

"Molly, I am not leaving until-"

"Is there a problem in here, Miss?"

They both looked the source of the voice and found a security officer poking his head through the door. Molly smiled gratefully.

"No," Sherlock hissed. But Molly spoke quickly after him.

"Yes, sir. I was just asking this gentleman to leave and he refused."

Sherlock threw her an incredulous look.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sherlock turned his eyes to the officer and glared. "I will not. You have just interrupted a very important conversation and I would appreciate it if  _you_  left. Immediately."

"Sherlock please, just go," Molly said, tears flowing more freely now. He looked to her, he face looking anguished, and she wanted so badly to believe his words. But they were impossible. Sherlock did not love. And even if he could, he would not love her.

The officer reached down to his radio and called for back-up. "Sir, this is your last chance to leave. We will remove you by force if necessary."

"Like hell you will. Don't be ridiculous. Can you not hear, or are you really that stupid? I already said I'm not leaving her."

He strode over to Molly's bedside before the officer could stop him and grabbed her hand. She tried to pull it away, but he held it in a tight grip.

"Molly, please stop this."

Then two men came in and pulled him out of the room, not without receiving a few blows to the face and gut though. She sobbed openly as she watched him fight the officers all the way down the hall through clear glass wall.

* * *

"You know, for someone who helps put criminals behind bars, you sure end up behind them yourself quite often."

Sherlock glared and John who didn't bother to hide the grin on his face. He chuckled a bit when he saw the bruise forming on Sherlock's jaw. It wasn't that he liked seeing his friend in pain. It's just that Sherlock usually deserved it when someone finally got fed up enough to throw a punch.

"So, what'd you do this time?" John asked as they walked through the halls of Scotland Yard.

"Three security officers felt it necessary to forcefully remove me from Molly's hospital room," he grumbled angrily, striding in front in front of John like a man on a mission. However, he was stopped in his tracks when John grabbed his shoulder roughly and pulled him around.

"What? Why did they do that? What did you do, Sherlock?"

"What makes you think that I did something?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that three officers dragged you from her room. Actually, yeah. I think that's a pretty good deduction."

Sherlock fixed on him with an icy glare. "I did nothing but tell her the truth."

"What do you mean? You'll have to be more specific, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. "May we have this conversation in private?"

John glanced around to see that they had gathered an audience. He nodded deftly and walked away quickly.

* * *

As soon as they stepped foot into 221B, John turned to Sherlock.

"Explain."

"I simply told her that I loved her."

John gaped at him. "You did what? You idiot!"

Sherlock looked affronted.

"Excuse me? I thought you would be proud. You were the one telling me I should tell her of my feelings in the first place," he huffed as he collapsed dramatically in his chair. On the inside, however, he was hiding his panic. What would he do if he couldn't fix this with Molly?

"What did she say?"

"She thought I was using her to get something," Sherlock said, his voice soft and, if John wasn't mistaken, forlorn.

"Sherlock, there are so many things wrong with what you did."

When Sherlock stayed silent, John continued. "I suppose you would like me to list them?"

"Naturally."

He sighed. Mycroft really should pay him for babysitting.

"First of all, Molly went through a traumatic experience last night. She was already in an extremely emotional state. You dropping a bomb on her like that was probably the last thing she needed."

Sherlock considered this. "I suppose you're right. Go on."

"Second, you have treated her like shit for the past few weeks. I know you've had your reasons for it, believe me, but Molly doesn't know that. So what is she supposed to think. To her, she sees a man who has treated her badly in the past, only being nice to her when he needs something. Now, he has treated her worse than ever for an extended period of time, then comes out and says he loves her. Think about it Sherlock. She already thought you didn't care for her. That's why she went last night."

Sherlock cringed as he was reminded of her actions the previous night. He had to fix this, he had to make her see...make her see what he did. That was it!

"John, I have to go."

He leapt up from his seat and rushed out the door.

"Wha-Oh forget it!"

* * *

Sherlock knew that Molly had been released from the hospital shortly after his 'departure.' He paused outside her door, wondering if he should knock or just pick the lock. If he knocked, she probably wouldn't let him in. However, if he picked the lock, she would never forgive him. Knocking would build trust.

He rapped on the door swiftly. He could hear her walking around the flat, tripping over Toby, and finally reaching the door. As it opened he felt a gust of cool air breeze past him and he shivered, but he couldn't tell if he was shivering from the cold or the icy glare of the woman in front him.

"Sherlock, in case I wasn't clear at the hospital, I don't want to see you."

She went to close the door, but he caught it with his foot.

"Molly, please. Just let me explain."

"What's there to explain, Sherlock?"

"Just give me ten minutes. Ten minutes, and if you don't like what I have to say, you'll never have to see me again. I'll stay away from Barts, I'll leave you alone completely."

She stood there for a minute, contemplating. Finally, she sighed, giving in as she opened the door.

"Ten minutes."

He suppressed a triumphant grin, knowing she would see it as arrogant. He walked into her sitting room and turned to find her already sitting on the couch.

"Alright, your ten minutes starts now. Explain. And it better be good."

"Molly Hooper, I have fallen completely and wholly in love with you. No, don't say anything. This is my ten minutes."

He let out a shaky breath, realizing for the first time how incredibly nervous he was. This was it, his one chance. He couldn't screw it up.

"I suppose I should start at the beginning. It started when I stayed with you after the fall. It was little things. The first the was your hair."

Molly couldn't help but interject here. "My hair?" she asked, bewildered. If he was just trying to flatter her, he was sure going about it a wierd way.

"Yes, your hair. It smells fantastic, like lavender, especially. I suspect it's because of your shampoo, but it was absolutely fascinating for some reason. So then, of course, I was highly disturbed that I was fascinated by  _shampoo_. I mean, honestly, something so mundane. So, I chalked it up to pure boredom. Then there were the books. Did you know you have two hundred and thirty-seven books in your tiny little flat. They are everywhere. It is absolutely impossible to sit anywhere without knocking one over. And you've read every single one, multiple times, each with the spine cracked and pages dog-eared. I was disgusted that I found it endearing. And the tea! You constantly have to have tea, and, lord, it might as well be sugar with a bit of tea with as much as you put in. I found all your little quirks and habits...intriguing. No, that's not the right word. They were enthralling, riveting."

He paused suddenly, and looked to Molly for the first time, as if just now remembering she was there. He was now pacing back and forth again. It seemed Molly Hooper was driving the poor detective mad.

"Go on," Molly said softly, finding herself unable to look away from the detective.

"Well, then I became very protective of you. You didn't know it, but I started following you everywhere after you left the flat, in disguise, of course. I know, I was being foolish and reckless, but I kept imagining Moran finding you and...So I followed you. I told myself it was because I felt responsible for your safety. After all, I had put you in great danger by asking for your help. I even conceded that, given my new  _fascination_  with you, I might even consider you a friend. This all happened within the first six months of being with you."

"Then, it became more. I noticed your smile when I would walk into the room and I realized that I quite liked how it lit up your face. I wanted to make you smile like that more often. I saw how your nose would scrunch up a bit when you found something particularly amusing, and I found myself wanting to make you laugh. I found you crying one day and...my gut clenched. It physically hurt me. I hated it. I knew then that I wanted nothing to do with these feelings. Looking back now, I feel horrible for how I treated you those next few months. I pushed you away. I hardly ever spoke to you, and when I did, it was only to criticize you. I was, well, awful."

"And then, one night, about a year after the fall, you had a date. Do you remember that? I disappeared for a week. I told you later that I had a lead on Moran. It was a lie. I couldn't stand the thought of you with another man. I knew then. After that, I treated you better, or tried to at least."

"But I've failed at that again. I pushed you away again these past few weeks. I have a reason, but it's a weak one. When the murders started happening, I thought if I pushed you away, if no one knew I cared for you, you would be safe from my enemies. I didn't want a repeat of what happened with Moriarty, especially with you, but it happened anyway. I hurt you for nothing, and it was stupid, and I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what he was about to say.

"I'm so sorry, Molly, but I couldn't let you think that you are unloved. Because you are not. Last night when I thought you were dead, I-" His voice cut off for a moment and he took a shuddering breath. "I couldn't handle it, Molly. I know I'm new to these emotions, and I don't really know how to say the right thing. But I just...I had to let you know that I meant what I said, every bit of it."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. And he was horrified. She was sitting there, her face in her hands as she sobbed.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry. I'll leave you alone, as promised." He quickly retreated toward the door only to be stopped by her voice.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

He turned to see her right behind him, hands on her hips. His brows furrowed.

"You're crying. Clearly I've upset you. I promised you if you didn't like what I had to say I would leave you alone."

And then, she laughed. A loud, booming laugh. He had never been more confused. Had she hit her head recently. He looked around the flat for signs of a disturbance, but found nothing.

"You silly, wonderful man," she said fondly as she gripped the lapels of his coat.

Before he could respond, she pulled him to her and planted her lips firmly against his own. He was shocked for all of two seconds before he sprang into action. He wrapped his arms firmly around her waist, pulling her roughly to him. She giggled lightly, and he took the chance to slip his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss and turning her giggle into a moan. Her hands made their way up his chest and into his hair where she gave a slight tug. He growled deep in his chest at the sensation.

She pulled away suddenly, taking in his red, swollen lips, his dilated pupils, and his race heartbeat she could feel against her chest.

She gave him a shy smile. "You really do, don't you?"

He returned her smile and rested his forehead against hers, looking deeply into her eyes. "Yes, I do. I love you very much Molly Hooper. I can't promise that I'll always say or do the right thing, but I will always love you."

The smile she gave him now was blinding, and his heart felt ready to burst. "I love you, too," she whispered, closing her eyes. How had he ever thought love was horrible? This was better than any high he had ever experienced.

They stood there for a moment before he saw her brows crease.

"What is it?" he asked worriedly.

"Oh, nothing. Just something I was wondering about."

"What?"

"Well, you said you decided to push me away after the murders started happening."

He looked down at her, confused by her train of thought. "Yes, that's correct."

"Well, that one day in the morgue when I figured out that Lestrade was wrong, you were horrible. That was before the murders started."

She felt his skin warm under her touch and looked up to find his face and ears had grown a rather interesting shade of red.

"Yes, well...there was, um, another reason for that."

"Well, what was it?"

He muttered something incoherently.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

He repeated himself, a bit louder, but it was still incoherent.

"Sherlock!"

"I was aroused!"

Molly's eyes grew wide and Sherlock's refused to meet hers.

"W-what?"

"I walked in and you had your hair down and no make-up and then you started deducing and I wanted-"

He cut off this time, not making the mistake of carrying on like he did with John.

"Wanted to what?"

He wasn't going to say anything, but he turned and saw those brown eyes and couldn't stop himself. He continued, his voice steady and confident.

"I wanted to push you against the wall and ravage you, John and Lestrade be damned."

If possible, Molly's eyes gre wider.

"Really?" she squeaked. Sherlock grinned fondly.

"Oh, yes. I had a very interesting talk with John about it afterward," he laughed, recalling the incident.

When she didn't respond, he grew worried. Had he frightened her with his admission?

"Molly?"

When she finally looked up at him, he saw something in her eyes he had never seen before. She looked...seductive. Slowly, she reached up and released her hair from the clip it was in. She shook it gently, then looked at him from under her eyelashes.

He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, he was sure.

"M-molly?"

"John and Lestrade aren't here now," she purred. Or at least, he thought she purred. She sauntered over to him and began to kiss his jaw.

"Y-you don't think that would be moving too fast?" he

"Think of it as making up for lost time," she whispered in his ear. Then, she paused and pulled back slightly. "I mean, only of you want to."

"Bloody hell, yes!"

He kissed her desperately for a moment before gathering her in his arms and carrying her into her bedroom.

 


	10. Epilogue

"I don't really find the humor in it."

"Sherlock, you refused to learn about the solar system, and yet there's a set of freckles on your back that perfectly make up the Big Dipper. You don't at least find that ironic?" Molly giggled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but gave her a small grin. "Perhaps it is a bit ironic."

"Wow. If I had known getting you into bed was all it took to get you to agree with me, I would have done it a long time ago," Molly joked.

Sherlock let out a booming laugh at this. Molly laughed along with him, but then suddenly her laughter died down.

"What is it?" he asked gently, pulling her into his arms. He felt like he couldn't touch her enough, and he reveled in holding her to him.

"It's just, well...what now?"

He looked down at her, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you want to keep this a secret. I would totally understand if you would, because of people like Moriarty or if you just want your privacy or something."

"Molly, I tried to hide my feelings for you, and Moriarty still found out, so that point is moot. As far as privacy goes, I couldn't care less. In fact, I want everyone to know you're mine. Especially that new lab technician. He's far too handsy if you ask me," Sherlock finished with a growl, causing Molly to chuckle.

"So, that means I can tell Mary?"

"Yes, you can tell Mary, though I don't understand what it is about you females and harping over relationships."

"Oh, hush and let me have my girl moments," she scolded. He leaned down quickly and kissed her.

"Yes ma'am," he spoke against her lips. When he pulled away, he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

"You know," he began, running he hand down her arm absent-mindedly. "John's going to ask Mary to move in together soon."

"What? Are you serious?"

He grinned at her excited manner. "Yes, I'm serious."

"But wait, won't that be a bit awkward with the three of you?"

He laughed lightly. "Molly, John will be moving out. They'll get their own flat."

He felt her cheeks warm against his chest. "Oh."

He paused for a moment, growing nervous now. "221B will be awfully lonely. I'll probably need a new flatmate."

"Yeah. I think Margaret said that James up in Human Resources was looking for a flat. Though I know how picky you are. You'd probably terrify the poor man," she chuckled.

His hand stopped, and she looked up at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Molly, I was trying to ask you to move in with me," he sighed. He really had to get better at being subtle, because apparently he was too subtle.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. "Really?" she asked.

He smiled, taking her face in his hand. "Really."

She beamed at him, warming his heart, before pouncing on him and pressing her mouth against his. After a moment, she pulled away.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he said with a smile. He leaned up to kiss her again, this time fisting his hand in her hair. She moaned in response and he quickly flipped them over so he was on top of her. He trailed kisses down her neck then further, continuing down.

"Again," she asked breathlessly.

He looked up at her, a devilish grin on his face. "Like you said, I'm making up for lost time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post the ending. I've had it written for ages, but never got around to putting it up. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks to everyone who read.


End file.
